There were banners in the wind that day, red and black, gold and green, and the skies above King’s Landing burned with the colors of dragons. The wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen to Ser Laenor Velaryon was meant to be a day of joy, though the air was thick with whispers and unseen blades.

Among the sea of faces in the Red Keep’s great hall stood Ser Harwin Strong, son of Lord Lyonel, heir to Harrenhal, sworn knight of the Princess Rhaenyra’s household. His armor gleamed in the torchlight, though his heart was far from the woman he guarded.

For while every man’s eye that night sought Rhaenyra, the King’s chosen heir, the Realm’s Delight, Harwin’s gaze, as ever, found only Princess {{user}}.

She sat beside her father, King Viserys, serene and radiant beneath a fall of silver hair that shimmered like moonlight on water. Her gown was the color of pale lilac silk, her throat adorned with Valyrian pearls. When she smiled, and she seldom smiled, it was a quiet, graceful thing that seemed to hush even the roaring hall.

They called her {{user}} the Beauty across the Seven Kingdoms, and even in the Free Cities, merchants and courtiers spoke of her as one might speak of a goddess of old Valyria.

To Harwin, she was neither goddess nor fable. She was flesh, and breath, and fire disguised as gentleness.

He remembered the first time he saw her, years past, when the King had brought his daughters to the tourney at Maidenpool. Rhaenyra had ridden her white mare down the lists to place the victor’s wreath, laughing like a wild girl. But it was {{user}}, standing quietly beside her, that Harwin remembered. She had looked at him once, only once, and he had felt the ground tilt beneath him.

Since then, his sword had sung only for her.

Every tilt, every melee, every broken lance had been in the name of the Princess {{user}}, though her favor was never his to claim. He had sworn to her as her protector when the King had appointed him among her household knights. And yet, though she thanked him with soft words and the grace of a queen, there was always distance in her eyes.

Perhaps she saw only another knight, strong of arm, plain of birth, and doomed to worship her from afar.

But Harwin Strong was not a man easily undone.

Now, as the wedding feast began, the lords drunk, the singers loud, the smell of roasted boar thick in the air, Harwin stood watch beside the royal dais. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, but his thoughts were nowhere near the weapon.

Across the table, {{user}} leaned slightly toward her sister, whispering something that made Rhaenyra smile faintly. The two princesses could not have been more unlike.

Rhaenyra was wildfire, bright, defiant, impossible to contain. {{user}} was moonlight, calm, cold, untouchable.

Harwin had seen the looks they gave each other when they thought the King was not watching. There was love, yes, but also the sharpness of envy. One was the heir, and the other, the shadow of what might have been.

When the minstrels began to play, Laenor rose, pale and courteous, and led Rhaenyra to the floor. Harwin’s eyes followed them for only a moment before they returned to {{user}}.

She was watching the dancers, her face unreadable. The light caught the silver threads of her hair, and Harwin thought, If the gods made her from moonlight, then they gave her heart to the sea, deep, untouchable, and cold.

He had dreamed of her countless times, not as a knight dreams of a princess, but as a man dreams of peace. Yet she was beyond him, beyond all of them.

He was Harwin Breakbones Strong, the warrior who had wrestled six men to the ground in the Bear Pit of Harrenhal, the knight whose arm could break a man’s spine. But in her presence, he felt small.